


Enemy of None

by Alarai



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, Flagrant Disregard for Canon, Idk this is just stream of consciousness stuff so come along for the ride, Peace Negotiations, Unknown established relationship, blame all problems on n'zoth, come along for the ride, flashbacks for good measure, in true blizzard fashion, so i mean, we're taking this much further than intended
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-08 03:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17378633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alarai/pseuds/Alarai
Summary: Peace negations between the two rival factions had been going well since a unique ward had been created that was capable of dispelling some of N’Zoth’s manipulative influence hanging like fog over the entirety of Azeroth. The cost of such an initiative, though, resulted in the war reaching the Black Isles themselves, where Alliance and Horde alike broke themselves off the other in a show that was near cataclysmic. The casualties were too numerous to count and resources had run thin - once again, the two were brought to the same table. United against the same evil.And yet...Sylvanas’ gaze fell upon the door of the chambers she resided within. Heavy wood settled into stout grey stone, with metal embellishments reinforcing the wood wrapped into seafaring motifs. He should be approaching soon, she had sent for him a half hour ago.Proudmoore Keep was large...but not that large.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm an undergraduate higher education survivor and thus I have been on a six year hiatus of creative writing. I apologize if this is an absolute train wreck, doesn't make much sense, etc. 
> 
> But this is me attempting to work out the kinks so I can keep writing for these two. I can't not join the fun at this point. So, enjoy!

Leather boots soundlessly paced in steady, methodical steps from one side of the room to the next. Sylvanas, clad only in a simple white tunic and black doe skin breeches, kept her hands locked behind her back. Her fingers tapped her steps against her wrist and her ears remained stock still as she thought, her cool facade in place fully as she weighed her options.  
  
Peace negations between the two rival factions had been going well since a unique ward had been created that was capable of dispelling some of N’Zoth’s manipulative influence hanging like fog over the entirety of Azeroth. The cost of such an initiative, though, resulted in the war reaching the Black Isles themselves, where Alliance and Horde alike broke themselves off the other in a show that was near cataclysmic. The casualties were too numerous to count and resources had run thin - once again, the two were brought to the same table. United against the same evil.  
  
_And yet..._  
  
Sylvanas’ gaze fell upon the door of the chambers she resided within. Heavy wood settled into stout grey stone, with metal embellishments reinforcing the wood wrapped into seafaring motifs. He should be approaching soon, she had sent for him a half hour ago.  
  
Proudmoore Keep was large...but not that large.  
  
She stilled in the center of the room and looked opposite the door instead, where a grand four-poster canopy bed stood with curtains drawn. The wood, she’d been told, had been salvaged from old ships and expertly carved to depict fighting galleons and swift caravels surging through the waves. Rich Kul’Tiran green made up the bedclothes but the ornate duvet was mostly hidden behind curtains of fine gold thread. A draft from the large bay windows looking directly out to Boralus’ harbor would pull the curtains from time to time, revealing pieces of the large anchor embroidered into the duvet in striking silver. When the rolling fire pushed back, the curtains opened further, revealing glimpses of the person wrapped in those blankets. A flash of fine ivory splashed with pale freckles. A shot of stark white. A hint of blonde.  
  
  
A soft sigh whispered off lips hidden behind the curtains, and Sylvanas’ ear twitched in response before she promptly about-faced and walked out of the room.  
  
Anduin stood on the other side of the door, hand raised as if prepared to knock. He stumbled back in surprise at his sudden proximity with the Warchief but managed to swallow his fright into little more than a startled squeak. He cleared his throat, opened his mouth to speak but Sylvanas shook her head. “Not here,” she muttered and nodded to a door across the hallway.  
  
She moved around the High King and pushed through the opposite door into a study lined with modest bookshelves and filled to bursting with books and scrolls. Anduin followed suit and the two took up their usual places around the small table that stood in the center of the study. North and south. Black and white. Alliance and Horde.  
  
“I came as quickly as I could.”  
  
“I’m sure,” Sylvanas drawled. “I’ll cut to the chase, Wrynn. We are currently under an armistice until the full treatise is drafted between our two factions, correct?”  
  
Anduin gave her a shrewd look, mild confusion marring features that revealed he simply didn’t understand. “Yes, Lady Windrunner.”  
  
“And during such no acts of war, by any means, are to be committed by one faction or the other - lest the armistice be null and void...?”  
  
“Yes...Sylvanas, I -“  
  
“Such acts including,” Sylvanas interrupted, beginning to move and circle around the table. “Any and all military conflict, assassination, abduction...”  
  
She stilled just in front of Anduin and pressed her hand into the table, leaning into his space and staring at him. Hard. “...sending a spy to see whose bedchambers I share.”  
  
Blue eyes, being held hostage against bright red ones, cast downward  
  
_Ah, there it was._  
  
“Tell me why I should continue to play by your games, honor your peace, when you fail to abide by it?” The Banshee hissed. “Did you think I was stupid? Blind? That I wouldn’t be able to root out the shadow you sent to follow me?”  
  
“No,” Anduin said, stronger than he thought possible, before meeting the Warchief’s gaze head-on. “No, my intention was never to undermine you or or upset the basis of our mutual trust.”  
  
“And yet,” she chuckled, fangs glinting in a sneer. “You definitely weren’t attempting to assassinate me. Your spy barely had any weaponry on them at all, and limited skill it seemed. I could have heard his dragging steps from the other side of the Keep...and his racing heartbeat from Zuldazar. Pray tell, Boy King. I know the pickings are thin but he couldn’t have been a member of your SI:7.”  
  
Anduin sighed, glancing sidelong before looking to her again. “He was not sent as a spy, or a soldier, or an agent of any kind. He was delivering a message for me...to a friend.”  
  
“To Lady Proudmoore, I know,” Sylvanas chuckled, lifting herself up now to lean against the table. “I read your little note.”  
  
“Then you know I worry for her, as a friend...as her nephew.”  
  
“And demonize me, because you believe I have done something to her.”  
  
Anduin paused, his lips thinning as he thought through his words. “I had no idea you would be around when I sent him to deliver my message to Jaina but I feared the worst and was proven right, it seems. It took a while for her to return to herself when...when she returned to us. When you released her.”  
  
_Snared. Perfectly._  
  
“When...I...let her go? Right?”  
  
“Yes, after you captured her at the first battle on the Black Isles and held her for months. She returned to us...different, as if she was disoriented. Unsure. She secluded herself more often than not and wouldn’t even let me speak to her...to help her,” his face screwed up in pain and anger flared in his eyes for a moment, before he blinked and released a sigh. “She came around eventually, but I worry for her...for her being so near you again while we garner these discussions. I worry you attempt to manipulate her even now. I worry about, and wonder, what it is you’ve truly done to her.”  
  
Anduin braced for the backlash. For the anger, the screaming, for a hand at his throat. He braced for a wail that would cut his ear drums to shreds and he braced to call the light the second she surged – the moment he felt movement.  
  
He braced but couldn’t be prepared for the bout of laughter that left the Banshee Queen, light and lilting. He didn’t even believe it was possible for a sound so full of life and joy to came from someone he knew to be so dark and destructive.  
  
“Oh,” the elf sighed, dragging a finger beneath her eye. Was she...crying? “A Boy King, indeed. You gravely misunderstand this situation.”  
  
Anduin stared at her, unmoving, unblinking, as she moved past him and drew herself to the door. A chill ran up his spine as she passed that echoed in time with the creaking open of the heavy door. Her words felt like molasses to him - thick and heavy and formed in such a way he couldn’t work through it. Confusion settled over him like an impenetrable fog.  
  
“Jaina Proudmoore was never my captive. She stayed of her own free will.”

 

***

  
Jaina stirred as she felt the bed dip beside her, her eyes fluttering sleepily as a gentle, questioning groan worked up her throat.  
  
“Shh,” the voice she heard released the tension in her as if by command and cold fingers brushed against her cheek so lightly she wasn’t even sure she was touched by something corporeal. “Just me.”  
  
“Mmm,” the mage murmured, reaching out and finding the body connected to those fingers. “C’mere.”  
  
Sylvanas smiled and toed her boots off before slipping into bed beside her. She settled on her back and Jaina rolled closer, pressing her forehead into Sylvanas’ neck and running her fingers up the soft silk of her tunic to brush lightly along the length of her collarbone, against the muscles in her neck, the distinct curve in her jaw.  
  
She cradled her jaw in her hand and placed lazy, half-asleep kisses against Sylvanas’ neck, humming happily as two strong arms pulled her closer. “Where’d you go?”  
  
“Go to sleep,” Sylvanas whispered, fingers beginning to comb through her silken hair while her lips brushed against the shell of Jaina’s ear. “I’ll explain in the morning.”  
  
“Mmm” was all Jaina managed. She had already fallen back to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So uuuh, I've only read this once and I'm too tired to reread it again. I apologize if there are a few spelling mistakes/errors that have snuck in. I'll iron them out later.
> 
> YA'LL WANTED MORE SO I MEAN. HERE YOU GO.

***One year ago***  
  
The initial landing on the Black Isles had been bloody but nothing, so far, compared to the current battle raging upstream from the southern beach. While both factions had established outposts on opposite sides of the island, the two met together in a near constant brawl towards the southern bank in a point of lowland near the river that divided the dark, impenetrable forest in two. It was harder to shell off the whispers this close to where N’Zoth resided, near impossible at times, while the Old God played with all the mortals fighting well within his reach. Like the Sha, the more open to powerful negative emotion, the easier it was to corrupt the mind. The mages, warlocks, priests, and paladins alike had tried and failed and tried again to develop a type of buffer to protect their people from the whispers and the void, but a unified front against the darkness was impossible to achieve so long as the two kept fighting.  
  
Jaina, most voracious of them all in the beginning, had come to know this by severe, detrimental loss. She had come to this isle furious, mana crackling around her like she housed lightning itself and decimated the Horde force that attempted to unseat the Alliance before they could even settle on the southern shore. She was sure the remaining Horde forces on the island had gotten her message, despite there not being a single living soul left to return to tell their Warchief of the carnage.

No, she had made it clear. If you wished the destroy the Alliance, you’d have to go through her first.  
  
But they had been fighting for weeks, a mile off the coast now, and so much blood had been spilled that it ran in torrents to the river had begun to bubble and froth at the shores as it traveled downstream and out into the ocean. It soaked the fighting grounds, mixing up pools of vicious, viscous mud that sucked at their feet with every step. What’s more, the vegetation around them seemed to respond with hunger and greed. She had noticed the trees stretching their branches ever closer toward the lifeblood spilled into their soil, surrounding and soaking their roots. With each passing day she felt the forest inch closer and closer around them.  
  
Dark magic encompassed them, it always encompassed them but she felt it now especially, in the midst of battle. The hairs on the back of the Archmage’s neck stood at attention, her eyes scanning the battle field around her as she lobbed frostfire bolts and set off clusters of arcane missiles with every miniscule twitch of her fingers. She couldn’t pinpoint the threat. It wasn’t coming from the towering orcs and flashing sin’dorei crashing against the alliance front lines. It wasn’t coming from her back either, not truly. Her threat seemed to be everywhere at once, pressing against her shoulders and pulling the breath from her but never truly tangible enough to strike against – to fight. No, whatever she felt, whatever she worried about...it was far more dangerous than those wielding weapons; of black and red or blue and gold.  
  
“Fall back!” Jaina bellowed, weaving her hands through the air and materializing an ice lance large enough to impale and immobilize the four orcs that rushed in practiced formation towards one of her warriors. “We need to regroup and establish our lines.”  
  
Her commanders by her side charged forward and relayed the message to her forces before slowly, but surely, the Alliance foot soldiers began to fall back in formation. They never ran from a fight, and never left their brethren undefended. Even if their life hung in the balance, they would rather fall than be seen as cowards, or worse - the reason one of their friends didn’t return home to their family.  
  
But the pomp and pride of soldiers was never something a hauty Kul Tiran sailor could stand for. “Get out before the fire licks your ass,” was a familiar phrase she remembered from the days she paced shipdecks in her father’s shadow and she knew Daelin would have categorized this battle as such. Driven by anger and pride, they had stormed into an unknown harbor and found themselves broken on hidden rocks…prey now to sharks and dark creatures they couldn’t see. They had made grave mistakes fighting on this land. 

So the Archmage huffed and slammed her hand into the ground, erupting a wall of ice that spanned from one end of the forest, across the river, to the trees that shaded the eastern shore from view. Orcish warcries echoed in her ears at the sudden schism and she felt the brunt of their weapons against the ice as if they beat against her own arm.  
  
“I SAID FALL BACK! NOW!”  
  
Her forces scrambled more quickly this time, and at the perfect moment it seemed. A shield covered her head before she heard a loud thud and glanced up to see the weary eyes of one of her warriors. An arrow stuck through the shield hovering above her, the arrowhead embedded deeply into the man’s forearm after having cut cleanly through the center of his shield. Blood dripped against Jaina’s cheek, and when he lowered the shield she saw the tendrils of necromantic magic stretch from the arrow’s shaft, lapping at the new source of blood.  


Someone less familiar with the manifestations and alteration of magical energy could have easily mistaken it for void energy, the way it lapped hungrily at the only source of life it could find, but this was different than N’zoth. Different than Azshara. Inkier and more putrid, thickened with decay and reminiscent of a frigid darkness that still haunted her nightmares.

  
_Ah, so the Banshee is here._  
  
“Fuck,” the mage muttered, gritting her teeth as she attempted to reinforce her barrier and bind it with arcana energy that repelled the Horde’s brute attacks. “We can’t fight her out here...not with this much tree cover...”  
  
The man who had shielded her remained stock still, seemingly keeping her covered from any other aerial attacks as she formulated her plan. She paid him no mind as she amplified her voice with a projection spell so loud the living quaked around her. “RETREAT! ARCHERS! COVERING FIRE!”  
  
A volley of arrows shot over her wall and erupted the ground into a blazing inferno. The flames caught on the cloaks and furs of the warriors closest and engulfed them entirely, the scent of searing flesh and agonizing screams shaking the very forest around them. Those that remained further back stalled, and backed way slowly, but Jaina’s influence animated the wall of fire like a puppet and the flames moved towards those that remained, hungrily singing everything in its path.  
  
She held the line as the last of the Alliance force fell back, but the soldier at her side didn’t budge. When she stood, she eyed the man wearily and her neck pricked again. His eyes seemed hollow, as if he had no recognition of where he was or who she was - having given him a direct order. She began to speak to him again, but his hand dashed out in lightning speed and his sword sliced into her side.  
  
Her screams seemed to drown as the sound of blood rushed into her ears. She crumbled to her knees and pressed her hand against the wound, feeling molten heat bubble through her fingers and spill from her hands. Her eyes flared bright blue with arcane energy, despite the pain, and with adrenaline pulsating through her, her magic faltered. Mana fizzled at the end of her nerves. She couldn’t feel the ley lines. Something was wrong.  
  
Blood splattered her face and the man’s body was thrown forcefully away from her. She could barely focus on the arrow shaft that had embedded itself through his throat as the world started spinning dangerously fast. Blackness, the same blackness that sprouted from between his lips, threatened to consume her.  
  
A cold presence settled over her. She felt soft fingers brush her cheeks. She had always thought the light people spoke of when they died was bright and white. They must have been wrong. Hers was red.

 

***

  
Sylvanas had resided within the trees throughout the duration of the fight, analyzing the fighting formations of the battalion commanded, this time, by Jaina Proudmoore herself. She had to admit, seeing the Lord Admiral on the field of battle once again was not what she expected to find when she received Nathanos’ summons in the midst of a meager skirmish but she simply couldn’t resist the opportunity to watch, and wait, and see what kind of cards the Archmage had up her sleeve.  
  
As young as she was, aged only by her mana-bleached hair and the strong lines of her face, it was obvious why Jaina’s name had stood out most of her lifetime. Sylvanas could remember when she first heard that name whispered amongst the nobles of Quel’thalas; of a skillful young mage that had been apprenticed to the infamous Antonidas by the age of 19. Kul Tiran royalty, no less! She also remembered barely blinking and hearing that story twisted, now the youngest Archmage ever appointed to the standing of a full member of the Kirin Tor. A beauty ripe for picking.

  
A beauty Kael’thas was determined to seize for his own at one point…which was exactly when she lost what little interest she had in the mage. She had always been more useful commanding, anyway. Killing. She let nobility keep their bizarre obsessions with courtship rituals and birthright. Not many were as skilled as her, as lucky, to be able to seize their birthright daily.  
  
Oh, but how the nobles of Silvermoon’s past would talk if they could see Jaina Proudmoore now. She’d give almost anything just for Kael’thas to see, to watch the bawdy prince shrivel under the unruly power that erupted from her so beautifully. Bright blue eyes encircled with fog blazed a searing white as she drew mana from the depths of the earth and altered the landscape around her as if the world itself drew nearer to her, wished to respond to her. Wind whipped her tight braid, pulled at the boughs Sylvanas hid within, as elementals surged from the nearby river tainted stripped with blood like warpaint. She released her torrent; ice, fire, and pure arcane force snapped at every corner of the battlefield. She never felled just a single target, always multiples, always striking with force.  
  
She was an absolute storm of destruction and power. One that could bring the snobs of old Quel’thalas to heel with a single snap of her fingers.  
  
No, Kael’thas wasn’t worth her energy, her sacrifice. She’d give anything to see such a destructive force fall by her hand, to watch such a powerful mage choke on her blood as she sliced open her throat.

It’s what Jaina deserved. No more, no less. And one of these days, she’d claim the soul that belongs to her. For Lordaeron. For the Under City. Jaina was _hers_.  
  
But it seemed to the banshee that someone else may have had that motive in mind, though he was armored and dressed in Alliance gold and blue. She couldn’t see his features from her distant hiding place but she could clock his odd mannerisms throughout the battle from miles away. At first he fought valiantly, listening well to his commanders and fighting in the noticeable formations the Alliance always used in battle. For the first half hour, he never misstepped.  
  
Then he started breaking formation. He seemed to snap in and out of reality, trying his best to retain his grasp on his knowledge of how to fight. He’d be in line with his fellow foot soldiers one moment, then straying the next. And every time he succumbed to whatever was controlling him he drew closer and closer to Jaina.  
  
Her wall gave Sylvanas the perfect opportunity to test her theory. She settled deeper into her stance and pulled an arrow from her quiver, pulling it taut against her bow string and aiming it to arch over the ice. She hadn’t aimed for Jaina outright, aiming instead for the arrow to land right in front of her, but the soldier had moved and intercepted the attack regardless. His eyes were set on his quarry, and he didn’t intend to let the banshee’s arrow ruin his fun.  
  
But mortal eyes could very rarely see the speed her arrows flew at, much less be able to anticipate and intercept them perfectly.  
  
“So N’Zoth plays, even here,” she whispered to herself, reaching out to connect with the dark energy she imbued within her arrows and tasting the void corruption that fell where her arrowhead had pierced through the man’s shield and armor. It was bitter on her tongue, even by proxy, and the whispers of the Old God tickled behind her ears, though his influence barely seemed to touch her or the Forsaken.  
  
The living however, were a different story.  
  
“Shit,” she hissed as she watched him go for his sword faster than should have been possible with such heavy armor and she knocked an arrow that she pulled back and released with extreme concussive force a second too late.  
  
The banshee felt the Lord Admiral’s pain more than she heard her cry and bounded from the trees with expert ability. As she surged upon the fallen mage the body of her assailant flew away from her and collapsed in an unceremonious heap near the river’s edge.  
  
“...so fragile,” Sylvanas whispered, catching the Lord Admiral before she fell against the ground, brushing at the spatter of the soldier’s blood that marked her face. The void energy was palpable, even in such small amounts and seemed to sizzle at her touch; dissipating into the air to search for whatever it could latch onto. The wound in her side was gaping, her musculature was shredded despite the clean cut she had witnessed, and that same void essence seemed to be creeping into the wound where her blood poured from freely. She pulled her cloak over her shoulder and ripped it to shreds, binding the wound as tightly as she could to staunch the blood flow but the placement was difficult and her time was limited.  
  
“And not the best time to drag you into the shadows,” she mused, glancing up to ensure she wasn’t seen, by her allies or her enemies. She scooped the Archmage into her arms and eyed her arrow still protruding from the man’s throat, the fragments of her cloak fluttering along the ground.  
  
“Let them draw their own conclusions,” Sylvanas huffed, tightening her arms around the human whose life force was draining quickly. Where once sun tried to slant through impenetrable fog, the next she was surrounded by shadow - barely able to see the shape of the outside world in the shadow plane she had drawn the two into but able to move just as freely as she could in her corporeal body. As much as she despised shadow walking, Jaina remained more stable here. Death’s encroaching claw seemed to hover and still, it couldn’t quite reach her while she was protected by Sylvanas’ banshee guise. She’d survive, at least, long enough for Sylvanas to get her back to her tent.  
  
Not to mention, they couldn’t be seen in the living world, leaving Sylvanas able to walk uninhibited from the battle field towards the Horde’s encampment to the north.  
  
_Two birds, one stone. The less people know of this, the better._

 

***

 

The Horde force that had met the Alliance that day were on strict orders to fall back into the woods should issue arise, and wait for her command, so walking directly into her encampment posed no issue. She maintained their cover until she reached her tent and dropped it to reveal her quarry to the Dark Ranger that stood guard at the entrance.  
  
“Fetch Liadrin, immediately,” Sylvanas ground out, her walk through the shadows a significant sap to her energy. “Other than her, no one is allowed entry into my quarters. Period. Is that understood?”  
  
“Yes, my Lady,” Anya nodded and sprinted off in a flash of black before Sylvanas could say another word.  
  
The tarp snapped behind her as she pushed into her tent and maneuvered the human around the partition that guarded the single cot from view of the war table that took up the majority of the space. She settled Jaina down in a huff, and glanced down. Blood continued to seep from her wound so heavily it stained her cloak black and the mage was growing pale.  
  
“I’m sorry for this,” Sylvanas whispered to her unconscious form, pulling an unused brazier behind the partition and lighting it until it cracked with tempered, even flames.  
  
Sylvanas pulled a knife from a hidden sheath along the inside of her thigh and set the metal in the fire. As it grew red hot, she pulled another knife from a mirroring sheath along her other leg and cut through the haphazard bandage and what remained of the mage’s corsetry in a single, clean move.  
  
Fabric fell away to reveal pallid flesh and a taut stomach. Soft breasts heaved against the pain, and Sylvanas could notice a barely imperceptible quiver going through Jaina’s chest. She was dying, and the banshee could almost feel the mage’s spirit start to move into the realm of shadows.  
  
“Again...I’m sorry,” she murmured, pulling her gauntlets from her hands and grasping the handle of the knife sitting in the fire. Her free hand settled on the mage’s flash and her parted the wound. She found the gushing artery immediately and pressed the flat edge of the knife against it, filling the room with the smell of cauterized flesh and burning adipose tissue.  
  
Liadrin pushed into her tent at that exact moment and swallowed around the bile in her throat. She moved around the partition and sucked in her breath as she laid eyes on the work Sylvanas was performing, and upon who her subject was.  
  
“She’s dying-“  
  
“I know,” Liadrin interrupted, moving to her side and calling the light to her hands. They both watched, counting Jaina’s breaths, as the light knit her veins and muscles together in a show that was painfully slow. “I see why you called me and not one of your Forsaken.”  
  
“Her wounds are too detrimental. Though some of my followers can call the light, I know it hurts them to wield it,” Sylvanas mused, setting her soot and blood-covered knife to the side. “If one of them were to try it would probably kill them.”  
  
Her cool fingers pressed against the side of Jaina’s neck, she could barely feel her pulse.  
  
“And this God’s-forsaken isle doesn’t help matters,” Liadrin ground out, a vein popping in her jaw. “N’Zoth’s influence surges every time we use the light and fights it...hard. I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to accomplish for her here.”  
  
“Where else would you suggest?”  
  
Liadrin chuckled, and wiped a bead of sweat from her forehead. “Are you sure you really want that answer, Warchief?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Eversong. As close to the Sunwell as you can manage.”  
  
Liadrin didn’t need to look into the searing gaze of the Banshee Queen to feel the swell of anger and darkness that seemed to fill the tent like smoke. “Now is not the time for jokes, Lady Liadrin,” Sylvanas hissed around her bared fangs. Liadrin could practically feel her shadow form crackling just out of view of the corporeal world but she’d never been one to be unnerved by Sylvanas. Not even in death.  
  
“I’m not joking, Sylvanas,” Liadrin countered, keeping her focus on Jaina and the wound attempting to knit together from the inside out. “I may be able to keep her alive for a time if we stay here, but I can’t truly heal her. Not this close to N’Zoth, and not with as much blood that has been spilled on these shores. He’s been feeding on it...I can tell and he thirsts for more. If we stay here I can’t guarantee she’ll live, even if I do everything in my power to help her. I can’t heal her body and keep him from her mind at the same time.”  
  
The growl that left the Warchief bypassed annoyance and harkened more closely to murderous rage. “Leave it to Proudmoore,” she muttered under her breath and stood from her spot at the mage’s head. “Do what you can. I’ll leave my commands for the effort and arrange a portal there. Right inside the first gate, no further.”  
  
“That’s fine, I know the place,” Liadrin assented and continued her work without another word. She figured now would not be the most appropriate time to ask exactly why she was healing a powerful Archmage aligned with their enemy faction, at the behest of her Warchief. Nor did she think pointing out the more logical alternative would help, to let Jaina die, and receive a significant leg up with her body in possession of a Queen who could raise her. No, she had served the Windrunner family time and time again without question.  
  
She would continue to do so. Even now.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ranger-General, more like Surgeon-General amirite?
> 
> Nah but honestly sorry I took detailing the wound repair too far so like...if you're repulsed by the medical field I'M SO SORRY.

The portal snapped shut behind them as their mounts stepped through, the residual scent of ozone burning against their sinuses and their mounts shifting nervously beneath them at the sudden change of scenery. For Liadrin, that was all the inconvenience she experienced returning to their natal lands but for Sylvanas the burning pain remained, settled deep into the divet of scar tissue that still marred her right beneath her breasts. Arthas’ handiwork made it near impossible for her to remain in Quel’thalas long, and the nearer she drew to the fields she was felled within the worse it became. Where once she had felt the energy of the ancients beneath the elven fields sing and dance and speak in a language only the rangers ever seemed to understand, now they rebelled against the entirety of her being. She was another extension of the scar that ran up the length of her homeland, a plague the woods themselves wanted to push out.

 

“Sylvanas,” Liadrin’s voice cut into the Banshee Queen’s brooding and she nodded pointedly at the body crumbled uselessly against the ranger’s chest. “We don’t have the time.”

 

Sylvanas offered a nonplussed grunt and moved her undead charger forward. The beast snorted and stamped its fiery hooves, following the guide of the reins out of the woods and towards the gentle sound of running water.

 

They had teleported near the northern strand of Lake Elrendar, landing solidly in a clearing that was surrounded by the crisp yellow and deep crimson leaves of Eversong in Autumn. Though the Sunwell’s thrumming power maintained the relative heat - even in this time of year - the cool winds from Northrend sailed south across the Great Sea and cut an unusual chill. Liadrin, still susceptible to the cold, shivered as a strong gust hit them square in the chest the moment they emerged from the cover of the trees.

 

“Didn’t think to bring a proper cloak, did you?” Sylvanas muttered, following the line of the Lake northward.

 

“Not all of us are so gifted with the cloak of undeath to protect us from the cold,” Liadrin huffed, hunching her shoulders against the wind.

 

A stark, short sound rumbled from Sylvanas’ throat. “Truly a pity.”

 

“You started it.”

 

Sylvanas hummed her assent and nodded towards the small cottage that was settled against the nearby ridgeline, hidden in the thick tree-cover that shrouded the country-side like a cloak. She directed her mount towards the muted red shingles and off-white stucco that crumbled and broke away from the vines creeping up the side. Foliage grew around the base of the cottage and spread towards the thick line of large, thick-bodied trees that bowed over the roof like predators over prey. What curtains had once fluttered in the entrance to the cottage had been eaten away years ago, leaving the building utterly camouflaged and forgotten.

 

_As it always has been…Since I found it as a child._

“You’re sure the Farstriders won’t discover her here,” Liadrin asked, nodding towards Jaina. “We’re awfully close to the retreat.”

 

“No, they will not find us,” Sylvanas assured, halting her mount and landing solidly on the ground before she let the Lord Admiral slip off the horse’s back and into her arms. “The green recruits train at Farstrider Retreat and their hearing is often not well-honed enough to dampen the sound of the falls,” her chin pointed northward, where the gentle echo of the rolling falls still reached them three miles north. “Not that that matters much. I am their Warchief.”

 

“Harboring an enemy on their lands,” Liadrin pointed out, tacking her mount’s reigns to her saddle so she could graze uninhibited. “We should at least inform Lor’themar that we are here. The last thing we need is rumor of the Dark Lady prowling through Eversong to ripple through the bars in the city.”

 

“Bold of you to assume anyone would manage to draw breath moments after they discovered me here,” Sylvanas chuckled darkly, ducking into the shadows of the cottage. “I’ll talk to Theron when it is necessary but as it currently stands, much like your worrying…unnecessary.”

 

Liadrin rolled her eyes and followed suit, taking in the site of the inside of the cottage. Though the outside of the building seemed to be weathered by time and the influence of the elements, the inside remained perfectly preserved. Marble floors completely devoid of dirt or leaves stretched to meet the circular walls of the building and mage lights flared to life to cast a hazy glow over the collections of chaises and chairs that were clustered along the walls. Lush carpets were stretched across the floors and pillows were piled into the alcoves cast in shadow by the loft hovering above. Silk curtains still adorned the wall in proper elven fashion and the metal railings up the curved stairs shimmered a brightly gilded gold in the light. Braziers were littered around the room, cleaned and stocked with fresh wood and a large circular table rested in the center of the main floor that housed an ornamental hookah cast in blue glass and gilded in silver. Liadrin hummed in response to Sylvanas’ quip and placed her bag on the table, removing from within it a myriad of potions she kept wrapped in cloth to protect from breaking. “And here I almost forgot how much fun it is to listen to you hear yourself talk.”

 

“And I almost forgot the reason I brought you with me,” Sylvanas spat, dropping Jaina unceremoniously onto the chaise resting along the cottage’s eastern wall, opposite the loft. “As it was not to question my authority.”

 

“My apologies, my Lady,” Liadrin offered with a bow of her head. “I’m merely attempting to ensure further war will not break between you and your own people.”

 

“What may come from this is none of your concern, Liadrin,” Sylvanas warned. “And the blood elves are not my people, at least not in the sense you mean. Our kind died long ago, what remains are the living – transformed – and the dead. That is all.”

 

Liadrin, wisely, stayed quiet and moved to the Lord Admiral’s side instead. She pushed away the heavy cloak Jaina had been hastily wrapped in and began removing the haphazard bandage that covered the wound that still gaped dangerously beneath it. On the isle she had only been able to repair the internalized damage the mage had suffered before her magic failed her. Despite being moved from one spot to the next, the arteries and macerated intestines that Liadrin had healed remained intact but there was still issue with the toxins that resided in Jaina’s abdomen, the ruined musculature that seemed to slough away in greater and greater quantities with each passing minute.

 

“N’zoth’s influence still eats at her, even here,” Liadrin muttered, pulling away necrotic tissue that pulsed weakly with dark energy. “It’s not spreading as quickly as it would in the Black Isles but it’s eating at her life-source and trying to consume her from the inside out.”

 

Sylvanas struck the brazier behind Liadrin to life, watching the leaves and kindling she built beneath the logs smolder and jump from one twig to the next. “Then you must cut it out,” she said matter-of-factly.

 

“I can’t just create new flesh,” Liadrin snapped impatiently. “If I cut away every part that is infected there’ll barely remain any viable musculature for me to work with. It’d take hours for me to knit her body wall back together and she can’t withstand me working on her that long. She’s too weak and I fear her body will collapse, despite my effort, from the stress of it all.”

 

“Then we will do things the old-fashioned way,” Sylvanas stated. “Try to purge as much of the void energy as you can without sending her into shock. I just need a few moments.”

 

Liadrin nodded her understanding and rested her left hand on Jaina’s forehead before letting her right come to hover over her stomach. The human’s flesh had gone clammy and cold, her breath barely making a sound against her chapped lips. She clung to life, albeit weakly, with characteristic stubbornness that Liadrin thanked the light for vehemently. The priestess’s hand hummed to life with renewed energy, drawing on the light of the Sunwell and breathing deeply as it poured from her hands like a rushing torrent. The anxiety that settled upon her shoulders on the Black Isle disappeared entirely as the void N’Zoth had gnawed within her filled, instead, with the familiar font of energy she and her people drew upon. She kept her healing split over the mage, half of the energy keeping Jaina stable while the other half drew out void corruption that sizzled and snapped the moment it was wrought from her flesh. Liadrin’s mouth watered strangely as the smell of copper and blood mixed with the scent of soot and infection, and again she had to swallow against the knot that unpleasant combination formed in her throat.

 

She barely took notice of Sylvanas moving around her until she heard the splash of water hitting the base of a thick iron cauldron she had settled into the brazier’s flames. The Banshee Queen had shed her armor in its entirety, leaving her only in the dark leather vest and tight breeches she wore beneath her chain mail. The bucket she sat at her feet was mostly empty, safe for a few inches of water that Sylvanas dunked her hands into. She scrubbed at them thoughtfully and waited to ensure the water in the fire had begun to steam before she moved to Liadrin’s side.

 

From a small pouch at her side, Sylvanas materialized a thin, curved needle and a spool of thick twine. She threaded the needle easily and held onto the twine as she submerged the metal beneath the water that had started to draw into a boil. After a moment she hauled the cauldron from the flames to cool and brought the needle to rest against a small swatch of cloth she had placed on the floor. She watched the void energy curl and spiral from Jaina’s wound, tilting her head in curiosity. Most of the dark tendrils that had spread throughout her musculature gave way with Liadrin’s coaxing, but she could still see where the void settled in the thinner veins and capillaries that ran like webbing along the inside of her body.

 

“I believe I’ve drawn out what I can,” Liadrin said a moment later, breathless and sweating. “Do what you must.”

 

Liadrin shifted, maintaining her healing influence at Jaina’s head, and watched as the Banshee Queen stood to retrieve her cloak and let it fall right in front of the chaise. She eyed the cauldron of water once again, now warm instead of scalding, and grasped it by the handle. She angled the water to flow directly into Jaina’s open wound and watched as it filled the hidden spaces in her abdomen. When the cauldron was emptied, Sylvanas grasped Jaina’s shoulder and angled her onto her side, watching as a sickening torrent of bloodied water and necrotic flesh soaked into her cloak.

 

Nonplussed by the mess at her feet, she let Jaina fall onto her back once more before she knelt at her side and drew the needle into her grasp. With practiced precision she wove her first stitch as an anchor, then started closing what viable muscle she could. Her hands moved quickly and without error, weaving the needle back in on itself and tightening down her stitches with idle strength that didn’t show in her undead hands. Liadrin remembered a time before where Sylvanas’ hands would shake from pulling the twine so taught, her fingers growing red and irritated by the firelight with the poor ranger writhing, painfully awake, beneath her.

 

Sylvanas pulled the final stitch tight and used her teeth to cut the twine away from the spool. She sat back on her heels and looked at the closed wall of muscle and the lines of black that still marred the edges of the muscle closest to where her skin had been split by the sword. “What void energy remains, it doesn’t look like it affects the skin or fat tissue. Just the muscle.”

 

“Then leave her wound as it is for now,” Liadrin suggested. “We can attempt to draw it out again in a few days, hopefully once she is conscious, then close it entirely.”

 

“We must dress this, then,” Sylvanas said, wiping her bloody hands idly on the front of her breeches. “I’ll forage for some plants we can use to create a salve.”

 

“You may want to think about hunting, as well,” Liadrin said, letting the light fade from her hands. “She’ll need food once she wakes.”

 

“Oh trust me,” Sylvanas said softly, walking across the room and slinging her quiver over her shoulder. “I have every intention of killing a few things to help alleviate my…homesickness, as it were.”

 

“Clever,” Liadrin drolled, waving her away. “Go then. I’ll see what else I can accomplish while you are gone.”

 

***

 

When Sylvanas returned the sky had darkened to a deep purple that bled into vibrant streams of red and pink and the moon had risen off the far coast. Two great stags were piled behind her, balanced precariously between her mount’s hip bones and her own saddle while a large pouch of healing herbs hung from a thong that cut across her chest, bouncing gently against her hip. She drew her mount into the clearing behind the cottage with ease and dropped from the saddle, carefully stringing the stags up to drain from the boughs of a thick oak tree before she turned upon her mount and watched as it phased into a swirling cloud of shadow and a pile of useless bones. She frowned at the unexpected dismissal of her mount and hummed in thought as she moved forward to pick up one of the horse’s femurs. She rolled the thick bone thoughtfully in her hand as she approached the oak tree again, ears twitching as the wind brushed through the leaves and whispered to her. She paused, fingers twitching and squeezed. A sickening crack preceded the dull ache of bone splinters slicing into her hand, and she growled as she tossed the separated bone into the underbrush.

 

The pain in her chest twinged, as if an arrow had lodged itself square through her heart. She sucked in a breath and braced herself against the tree before her, her palms giving way to her forearms and bringing her to rest her forehead against the tree’s trunk. Bark scratched at her forehead and she could almost feel it like she used to, her nerve endings sparking to life, but instead of simple sensation it felt like she was pressing against the sun itself. Her face screwed up against the agony and she sank onto her knees as a hollow blackness pulsated from behind her sternum. The curse that hummed there, activated by the proximity to the Sunwell itself, ached in the same time her heart would have.

 

She felt like she was dying all over again; felt the life leave her to be replaced with hatred and pain. The very grass beneath her knees whispered the same.

 

_Get out. You don’t belong here._

_You failed._

 

**“TAKE HER! RUN!”** Her own voice echoed back to her. Her old voice.

 

The earth rolled beneath her hands.

 

The shadows within her pushed at her skin. Her jaw clenched against the scream that threatened to break through her teeth. Her very soul riled within her, wanting to rip apart from her corporeal form.

 

Her vision was flooded with bright blue light. Then it faded to nothingness.

 

She pitched forward, coughing hard and spitting out the ichor that flooded into her mouth. She watched the dark green liquid mar the grass below and degrade it slowly – a small trail of smoke rising as the very earth beneath it died. She growled at that and pushed herself off the ground, rising to her feet and spitting again.

 

_Be damned the ancients and their petty revenge. They know nothing of true suffering._

She walked through the rear entrance of the cottage and stopped when she found the main floor empty. Jaina no longer lounged on the chaise that was still stained with her blood and the remnants of the gore that was washed out from her wounds, and the fire in the brazier had died to a low smolder. Sylvanas’ ears twitched and she looked upwards, to the second floor that stuck out from the wall and cast the western point of the cottage into deep shadow. She could hear the Lord Admiral’s even breaths from the loft and looked instead to the potions, bandages, and single golden hawk feather that sat on the table.

 

She picked up the feather between her thumb and forefinger and spun it in a tight circle. “Duty elsewhere,” Sylvanas murmured. “Then let us see what damage remains.”

 

Sylvanas grasped the rolls of bandages left for her and followed the curving ramp up to the loft, pausing momentarily when she reached the top and stepped into the shrouded bedroom. Pale blue mage lights flared to life at her presence and perfectly framed the elegant arch of thin silk drapings that enshrouded the head of the bed like a canopy. Jaina rested peacefully beneath them, just barely lifted off her back by a thick wall of pillows and her head turned towards the open window to Sylvanas’ right. Moonlight had just barely edged into the room and cut a line across the bed, falling on Jaina’s bare stomach and the wound that hadn’t yet been redressed. Sylvanas’ eyes followed the line of her body upward of their own accord, falling on the swell of her breasts that rose and fell gently with each breath and her nipples pulled taut against the night air. Her gaze followed her hard lines of her collarbones, the muscle that ran up the column of her neck, the gentle curve of her cheek, the peppering of pale freckles over the arch of her nose.

 

She dragged her gaze away with a snarl and descended on the mage with haste, settling at her hip and pulling the packs of herbs she had wrapped up out of her pouch. She sorted them, spreading them across the mattress, before eyeing her collection and pulling leaves out in a routine that was second nature. Some, with long thin leaves that smelled sharp and biting, she wrung into fluid and pulp over the wound itself. Others, that were rounded and sweet-smelling, she scraped away the first layer of the plant dermis and rested them flush against her own stitches. She formed the plants into a thick layer that packed around the stitches and secured them tightly with the bandages Liadrin had left for her, grumbling under her breath as she gently lifted the Lord Admiral with one arm to encircle her entire abdomen time and again until the entire wound was covered.

 

She eyed her handiwork, then with a curt nod promptly pulled the covers up to Jaina’s neck and returned outside to dress the stags she had felled before the lynxes would move to steal them. She worked through the night skinning her quarry, throwing their innards into the woods for the wildlife, cutting away the choice pieces of meat, and dragging away what remained of the carcass for whatever may have wanted to consume it. She crouched by the lake once she had finished, pre-dawn just barely edging over the horizon, and attempted to scrub the blood from her hands and arms until she gave up entirely, stripped off her leathers, and dove into the waters.

 

She broke the surface moments later and forcefully cleaned away the dirt, gristle, and blood that had clung to her skin. Even the water, cooled by the winter winds of the north, felt too hot on her skin and she pulled herself onto the shore and disappeared into the cottage before the sky could even lighten beyond a deep, dusky blue.

 

She found a fresh pair of breeches and a black tunic tucked away in a trunk hidden beneath the sloping ramp to the loft and pulled them over her aching skin. Barefooted, she barely made a sound as she moved to the table and eyed one of the potion bottles Liadrin had left, the liquid a soft lilac that glowed in its crystal vial.

 

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” she murmured, taking the vial with her and ascending to the loft once again. She kept her eyes downcast as she walked into the room but she stopped when she found herself engulfed, once again, in pale blue light.

 

She hesitated, a twinge running up her right hand. Her response to draw her quiver, to pull her bow.

 

She looked up and her ember eyes fell not on the glow of mage lights but the eyes of the Lord Admiral open and boring into her, blazing bright blue-white with arcane energy and crackling just like the spear of frost she was conjuring in her hand.

 

“ _You,_ ” Jaina hissed with a venom Sylvanas would have considered reverent, had she had the chance to truly listen before she pitched coward to avoid the ice lance that was leveled directly at her head.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaina's awake. Sylvanas is a snake. The weaving of powerful magic begins.

Sylvanas rolled forward, dodging as the Ice Lance passed over her head and slammed into the wall over the ramp. Plaster crumbled to the floor and a hole gaped where the ice lodged itself, then faded away. Her eyes snapped to Jaina and she flattened herself against the floor before a column of fire erupted from the mage’s hand and she watched half the curtains in the loft go up in flames. “ _Belore_ ,” she muttered, phasing into her banshee form with a warning cry that sent Jaina clawing at her ears before she materialized above her, hips pinning her own to the bed and her hands tightly pressing Jaina’s own into the pillows beside her head.

 

“Enough,” she hissed, nose to nose with the Archmage. “Before you hurt yourself, insolent whelp.”

 

Jaina’s glowing eyes narrowed and her nostrils flared in warning that Sylvanas dampened by leaning dangerously close into her space. The light in her eyes winked out and faded to circles of stormy blue, glazed over in confusion as the Warchief rolled her hips forward and slid Jaina’s hands up until she clasped them above her head. Jaina’s lips parted on the uneven whimper that left her throat and Sylvanas’ teeth glinted in the moonlight. Her cool lips barely ghosted along the line of Jaina’s jaw as she drew closer to her ear, and she felt the flutter of the mage’s heart under her lips when she pressed a chaste kiss against the side of her neck.

 

“Are you ready to listen?” Sylvanas whispered softly, almost tenderly in her ear as she reveled in the sharp shiver that shot down Jaina’s back. The mage snapped out of her reverie with a growl and moved to push against her, hard, her wrists pushing in an attempt to break her hold while her hips tried to rise and buck her off.  The contraction of her stomach muscles, however, now without the burning fury of the arcane to take her attention, immediately tore a sharp scream of agony from the center of her chest and she sprawled onto her back once more as a spasm of pain threatened to knock her unconscious once again.

 

“I told you,” the banshee huffed, completely unmoved from her spot atop Jaina. She released the mage’s wrists and sat back, pressing her weight against Jaina’s hips and briefly brushing her fingers against the uninjured curve of her waist – staring at the small bloom of blood darkening her bandages.

 

“Fuck you, frigid siren, you did that on purpose,” Jaina growled, her fingers running into her hair and clutching at her scalp as she tried to overcome the searing cut of pain that shot through her body with each and every shaken breath she dragged into her lungs.

 

“I figured it would be about time for this,” Sylvanas said, leaning over her once more and pressing her hand near Jaina’s head. She brought the vial Liadrin had left into the mage’s view. “Drink this.”

 

“How do I know you aren’t trying to kill me,” Jaina asked, wincing again when Sylvanas shifted. “Tides – Will you get off - “

 

“Hush and drink,” Sylvanas interrupted, moving the hand near Jaina’s head into the hair at the nape of her neck and tilting her forward to drink the glowing lilac potion. Jaina tensed under Sylvanas’ touch but relaxed as the warm liquid hit her tongue and slid down her throat. In an instant the pain evaporated from her body and her limbs grew heavy and numb. She sighed as the last drop settled against her lower lip and her tongue idly darted out to taste it. Through heavy lids she caught the red gaze of the Banshee Queen follow the sweep of her tongue before, finally, the weight of her lifted off and she breathed out a steady, unhindered breath.

 

Jaina let her eyes fall closed for a moment, wanting nothing more in that moment than to slip into a deep sleep. She resisted and forced her eyes open, clutching onto the blanket like a lifeline to pull herself into a sitting position. She hissed, not in pain, but against the tightness in her stomach and the unnatural pull of her stitches. Tenderly, her right hand fell to her side and touched the bandage wrapped around her stomach. Her breathing grew labored, her vision started to spin.

 

A flash of cold brushed against her neck where sweat instantly beaded, causing her eyes to shoot open against the blackness once again. Sylvanas’ face hovered close to hers, a disapproving scowl pulling her long brows together as she gently cradled her back against the pillows. “You need to stay still,” she growled in warning before promptly sitting up and leaving Jaina’s suddenly flushed skin lacking the cool comfort of her touch. “You were almost fatally wounded and you aren’t fully healed yet.”

 

“That would have been great to know about five minutes ago.”

 

“You never gave me the chance to tell you.”

 

Tired eyes flashing with anger shot to Sylvanas’. Jaina was surprised to find the burning coals of the banshee’s eyes tempered into a soft maroon glow. They swirled with a darkness to them, more like mischief and curiosity than the influence of evil and for a moment Jaina saw the twisted visage of a child before her. Of a child, with bright blue eyes like her younger sister, who had been leveling that stare at people longer than Jaina had been alive. Of a child that had grown into the Ranger-General of Silvermoon and one of the most prolific war heroes of her time. Of a child that grew and fought and died and rose to fight again. Who then maimed and murdered and burnt the world around her to continue leveling that particular gaze upon whatever she wanted, while she waited for it to be delivered into her hands. As if she deserved to have whatever she pleased simply because she desired it. The gentle tilt of her head and the inquisitive twitch of her long ears made Jaina’s stomach roll and her chest quiver in a deep melancholy she couldn’t quite understand. Her eyes darted away from the entrapment of the banshee’s stare, and she regarded the soot-covered tatters of the silk curtains she had destroyed.

 

“What?” Jaina hissed. “Why are you just staring at me?”

 

A cold finger crooked beneath her chin and her gaze immediately snapped back to Sylvanas’. “I’m waiting for you to start. Well…what do you remember, Proudmoore?”

 

The mage blinked and her eyes fell to the duvet beneath her hands as her eyes, unbidden, followed the fall of Sylvanas’ grasp from her face. She worried at the embroidery with her thumb and closed her eyes for a moment. With a heavy sigh she leaned her head back and squeezed at the bridge of her nose, pushing away the fog that clung to her mind. “I remember fighting on the Black Isles,” she started slowly. “I remember the soldier. I remember you.”

 

“Work through it,” Sylvanas coaxed.

 

“I pushed your forces back,” she started, staring at the ceiling. “But I had no idea you were there. I watched your arrow feed on the blood of the soldier that intercepted it.”

 

Cold blue fell on her once again but Sylvanas smirked and shook her head. “I know what you’re thinking, but no. I did not corrupt your soldier. I did watch him become corrupted, however.”

 

That got the Lord Admiral’s attention and she released a low sigh as she brought her hand to rest against her wounded side. She glanced down, at the tingling sensation in her fingers and closed her eyes for a moment. The numbing potion dampened her ability to discern the more minute innotations of arcane magic but she had no doubt that what the Warchief told her was the truth. She could feel the lingering pulse of the void in her tissue. She wanted to rip it out herself, to dig her nails into her side and peel herself apart one string of sinew at a time.

 

When she opened her eyes the voices whispering on the edge of hearing quieted down. “I’m listening.”

 

“Good girl,” fangs glinted in the mage light as dark lips pulled into a tight, sinister grin. “You see I was on the fringe of the battle the moment you presented yourself Lord Admiral. I came with all haste to see the Daughter of the Sea and the tricks she kept up her sleeve as she fought my peons.”

 

Jaina’s hands balled the duvet cover into fists as Sylvanas leaned closer, her lips hovering just beyond reach and turning the air cold as it moved against her ear. “You surely didn’t fight like the Jaina Proudmoore I’ve fought against. Do you reserve your more grandiose exhibitions of magic for me, and me alone? Truly, I’m flattered.”

 

Sylvanas stood pointedly before Jaina could fire back and smirked as she noticed the relieved fall of the mage’s chest. “Nevertheless, I wasn’t entirely bored watching you all. I noticed one of your men, originally stationed in the second battalion, far right wing, continuously break rank the longer the battle continued.”

 

“When you called your retreat, though he should have covered the right wing and prevented a flanking maneuver, he fell to your side instead. Valiant, to act the martyr in such a petty squabble, but you already had your cover in your rangers and your wall,” Sylvanas paused, her hands falling to clasp behind her back in practiced rest. “It didn’t make sense.”

 

“So you shot at him,” Jaina continued for her, the memory flowing back to her with more and more clarity. Details emerged, a flick of the soldier’s eyes to the distance, the shadow of his shield over her head, the resounding thud and sickening sound of the arrow sinking into his flesh. “You baited him.”

 

“Clever girl,” Sylvanas smirked, reaching up to tap the end her nose. “Correct, and he intercepted it perfectly. It’s impossible to shield against my arrows, especially in heavy plate armor.”

 

“Unless he knew to intercept it before you fired,” Jaina whispered, nodding in understanding. “Or he could see you.”

 

“Or sense me,” Sylvanas finished, drawing herself towards the open window and gazing out into the early morning. “So I’m sure you can clearly draw the same conclusions I have.”

 

Jaina swallowed against the lump in her throat. “We don’t have much more time to fight him.”

 

“If any at all,” Sylvanas pointed out drolly, before resting her hip against the windowsill and crossing her arms over her chest. She stared out into the surrounding woods as if she had all the time in the world to contemplate the livery around her. The unnatural stillness of her made Jaina feel all the more impatient.

 

“Why did you save me, then?” she spat, her brows drawn tightly together and her jaw clicking as she clenched her teeth in frustration.

 

Sylvanas smiled, turning her burning eyes onto the mage and clicking her tongue against the back of her teeth. “Because, Proudmoore, it doesn’t matter what attempts to get in my way. Be it the Old Gods, the Titans, Azshara, or a clumsy servant with a sharp knife. Nothing will get in the way of the shot I have leveled at your throat.”

 

She strode across the room and drew to her side once again, one knee coming to rest by Jaina’s thigh. Sylvanas smiled, almost proud of the mage’s hate-filled glare that held her own unwaveringly while her fingers grasped her chin in a tight hold. “Make no mistake, Lord Admiral,” Sylvanas purred in utter delight. “Even now, my saving you, is another means to my end. You and I will meet on the battlefield - stand on the edge of the world, if we must - but in the end it will be my blade that you choke upon.”

 

The Warchief grinned sweetly, and released her hold on Jaina’s chin to stand and turn towards the lower level of the cottage. “Now, rest and be good not to fight me too much. The sooner we heal you of this the sooner we both get to return to where we are needed.”

 

Jaina remained still and listened as the Banshee strode off, her footfalls echoing until she disappeared outside and her feet fell on soft grass. The unfamiliar, melodic calls of foreign birds awakening in the forests drew her attention outside and she calmed enough to truly take in her surroundings.

 

The décor of the room alone would have told her all she needed to know about their current location, but as soon as she truly focused the true taste of the land was poignant, near poisonous. Even though it had been years since she was a nervous Kirin Tor apprentice, marveling at the high vaulted ceilings of Silvermoon City, she could recognize the influence of the Sunwell anywhere. It made her feel like she was walking on the edge of the sun, too hot and bright for her kind that were born out of the frigid seas of Kul Tiras. An even sigh passed by her lips as she sunk fully onto her back, closing her eyes and reaching up to grasp the anchor pendant around her neck. Her head pounded in exhaustion, but her pendant helped steady her and stay off the enticing draw of the well of magic.

 

Not that she needed much help in doing so. She reviled against the putrid aftertaste that lingered in the shadows of Eversong Woods. It filled her mouth with the taste of iron and blood and frozen earth. Her headache pulsed dangerously behind her eyes response, she could feel the blood vessels behind her eyes revolting against her. She wanted to vomit up the rolling anxiety in the pit of her stomach but sleep was overcoming her. She felt paralyzed.

 

She was all too familiar with the wounds left behind by Arthas Menethil, the energy that caused those scars, the agony they contained… she had never known one to smell so poignantly of the crisp floral scent of tulips. She fell asleep wondering about that sudden change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to take a minute to say I really appreciate everyone's individual kudos and comments on this fic, as well as everyone's support in the Discord. Ya'll are great and ily.


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